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Lies My Mother Never Told Me: A Memoir
Автор: Kaylie Jones
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтение- Издатель:
- HarperCollins
- Издано:
- Aug 25, 2009
- ISBN:
- 9780061936494
- Формат:
- Книге
Описание
In her riveting memoir Lies My Mother Never Told Me, Kaylie Jones—the daughter of author James Jones (From Here to Eternity) and an acclaimed author in her own right (A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries; Celeste Ascending; As Soon As It Rains)—tells the poignant story of her relationship with her famous father and her alcoholic mother, and of her own struggles with the disease. A true story of privilege, loss, self-discovery, and redemption, Lies My Mother Never Told Me is Jones’s unforgettable account of a not-quite-fairy-tale childhood and adulthood defined by two constants: literature and alcohol.
Активность, связанная с книгой
Начать чтениеСведения о книге
Lies My Mother Never Told Me: A Memoir
Автор: Kaylie Jones
Описание
In her riveting memoir Lies My Mother Never Told Me, Kaylie Jones—the daughter of author James Jones (From Here to Eternity) and an acclaimed author in her own right (A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries; Celeste Ascending; As Soon As It Rains)—tells the poignant story of her relationship with her famous father and her alcoholic mother, and of her own struggles with the disease. A true story of privilege, loss, self-discovery, and redemption, Lies My Mother Never Told Me is Jones’s unforgettable account of a not-quite-fairy-tale childhood and adulthood defined by two constants: literature and alcohol.
- Издатель:
- HarperCollins
- Издано:
- Aug 25, 2009
- ISBN:
- 9780061936494
- Формат:
- Книге
Об авторе
Связано с Lies My Mother Never Told Me
Отрывок книги
Lies My Mother Never Told Me - Kaylie Jones
Lies My Mother Never Told Me
A Memoir
Kaylie Jones
To Eyrna
My best teacher
Contents
Part I
I’m All Alone
One City of Lights
You Ever Finish That Book You Were Writing?
Two Fiction
The Best Cocksucker in New York City
Three Love
Who Do You Think You Are, Frank Sinatra?
Four Birth of a Student
And for God’s Sake Don’t Fuck Frank Sinatra
Five Birth of a Writer
This Is Not the Chesa Grischuna
Six The Black Hand of God
Be Careful Where You Swim
Seven Powerlessness
Part II
Votre fille est tombée sur son dos
Eight The Brink
What Money?
Nine Grace
I Wasn’t on the List
Ten Legacy
He Called Me Lucky
Eleven Chicken or Egg
Why Is This Shit Always Happening to Me?
Twelve Death of a Writer
Photographic Insert
This Is Not the Palais de Justice!
Thirteen Hope
Part III
Mon mari est en chaleur
Fourteen Self-Defense
Catching Your First Millionaire
Fifteen Accountability
Take That, You Son of a Bitch!
Sixteen Your Own Private Omaha
It’s Just Like Driving Miss Daisy—in Reverse
Seventeen Heart
And Me, Vice Versa
Eighteen The Power of Good-bye
Memorial
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Kaylie Jones
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART I
I used alcohol as the magical conduit to fantasy and euphoria, and to the enhancement of the imagination. There is no need to either rue or apologize for my use of this soothing, often sublime agent, which had contributed greatly to my writing…. I did use it—often in conjunction with music—as a means to let my mind conceive visions that the unaltered, sober brain has no access to.
—WILLIAM STYRON, DARKNESS VISIBLE
I’m All Alone
My mother was a renowned storyteller. She was hilarious, irreverent, capable of Chaplinesque self-deprecation as well as boastful self-aggrandizement, depending on her audience. She was known for shocking the gathered company into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter, or horrified silence.
Here is a story my mother loved to tell, which ended up, in a slightly different form, in my novel A Soldier’s Daughter Never Cries.
One night when I was perhaps two, I stood up in my crib when my parents came in to say good night and announced, I’m all alone.
No, no,
my father explained, you’re not alone. You have us.
No. You have each other,
I told him, but I’m all alone.
Apparently my father sat down in a chair and burst into tears. My mother used to say that these words of mine convinced them to adopt my brother.
Why had my statement made my father cry? Perhaps this is only wishful thinking on my part, but I hope that on some unconscious level, he knew my words were true.
When I was little my mother often told me, If I had to pick between having your father or having you, I would pick your father.
This seemed to me a perfectly reasonable and honest statement because, given the choice, I also would have picked my father.
CHAPTER ONE
City of Lights
IN 1958, FOLLOWING IN THE footsteps of his writer heroes, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, et al., James Jones decided he wanted to live in Paris for a few years, and so my parents, newlyweds still, moved there, neither one of them speaking a word of French.
This was seven years after the publication of From Here to Eternity, a novel based entirely on my father’s own experiences in the peacetime, pre–World War II army. The book, which won the National Book Award in 1952, sold more than three million copies in the United States alone and was published worldwide, including in Eastern Europe and Asia. The film, starring Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Deborah Kerr, Donna Reed, Ernest Borg-nine, and Burt Lancaster, won eight Academy Awards in 1954.
By the time they moved to Paris in 1958, he’d written two other novels, Some Came Running and The Pistol. While all three were bestsellers, and Some Came Running was made into a Vincente Minnelli film starring Frank Sinatra, Shirley MacLaine, and Dean Martin, the novel had been savaged by critics. The Pistol fared much better with reviewers. Neither book reached the level of success of From Here to Eternity.
They moved into a little one-bedroom apartment on the quai aux Fleurs, a block from Notre-Dame cathedral. My mother was an excellent reader and offered insightful comments, though of a general nature. My father gave her the first 150 pages of The Thin Red Line, his Guadalcanal combat novel, and she thought they were terrible. She didn’t know what to say and finally she blurted, It’s too technical, there’s no heart in it.
And he burned the entire 150 pages in the fireplace. He started again, approaching C-for-Charlie Company as one collective, emotional consciousness, and he was off.
Over the course of their first year in Paris, my mother suffered several miscarriages, but eventually she became pregnant with me. Five months into the pregnancy, she had some complications, and total bed rest was recommended. My mother, for the next four months, had to give up the nightlife she loved so much.
My father was making progress on The Thin Red Line, so my mother, lying flat on her back, listened to him clacking away on the typewriter in the next room. One day, the laundryman arrived just as my father was writing one of the saddest scenes in the book. During an attack, Sergeant Keck, a die-hard, solemn, no-bullshit veteran, foolishly pulls a hand grenade out of his back pants pocket by the pin. Realizing this terrible mistake, he rolls away, onto his back, not wanting to upset, or hurt, his men.
My father got up and opened the door, and there stood the old laundryman, carrying their clothes. My father was shaking, his face twisted up, tears flowing; the laundryman could see my mother through the door, lying hugely pregnant in the bed. As my father reached for his wallet, the laundryman threw up his hands and said, Ne vous inquiétez pas, monsieur! Pas de problème!
Don’t worry, sir, no problem! And he refused to take my father’s money. You pay me next time!
My father, with his very limited French, couldn’t convince the kind man to take his money.
In early August 1960, a few days after I was born, we moved into an apartment my father had bought and renovated on the Île Saint-Louis, which overlooked the quai d’Orléans, above the Seine. My father had furnished it himself—with mostly Louis Treize, dark, shiny wood with red velvet and beige-toned upholstery. It was a strangely shaped apartment, since it spread out over two second floors in different buildings, and the buildings were not level. The living room/dining room was in one building, overlooking the quai and the Seine, while the bedrooms were in the back building, down a narrow hallway and shallow flight of stairs.
The Thin Red Line was published in 1962, and it was a critical and commercial success. The book was sold to the movies, and with that money, my father bought the ground-floor apartment in the front building, which became my parents’ elegant bedroom. A curving, carpeted stairway was built, which led from the downstairs entryway to the high-ceilinged living room. He also bought the third-floor apartment in the old, musty back building, which became his office.
Like a king and queen holding court, my parents were soon surrounded by admirers, revelers, court jesters, and even the occasional spy. They had a cook, a housekeeper/nurse, and a chauffeur. They were wild and irreverent and defiant, and so hospitable to anyone passing through that you never knew who might show up. As a little girl, I met famous writers, actors, movie stars, film directors, socialites, diplomats, and even an emperor—Haile Selassie—who stood by my bedside while I was awakened from sleep, and blessed me in some incomprehensible language. Ambassador Sargent Shriver and Eunice Kennedy were frequent visitors, as well as the French writer Romain Gary and his then wife, Jean Seberg. My parents counted among their friends the writers Richard Wright, Irwin Shaw, James Baldwin, William Styron, William Saroyan, Carlos Fuentes, Françoise Sagan, and Mary McCarthy.
Their parties went on all night, sometimes into the next day. Both my parents escaped oppressively religious mothers—my mother’s was deeply Catholic and my father’s was Methodist turned Christian Scientist. Both came from small towns—my father was raised in Robinson, Illinois; my mother in Pottsville, Pennsylvania—and both claimed to be atheists, though, if pressed, my father would admit to being agnostic. They derided ignorance, intolerance, and narrow-mindedness.
My father’s father, J. Ramon (pronounced Ray-mon) Jones, had been a dentist but became the town drunk, losing all his patients and his high standing in the community—absolutely everything. His wife, Ada Jones, died of diabetes in March 1941. My father was already in the army in Hawaii and did not request a leave to return home for her funeral. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December that year, while my father and the rest of his infantry company were building pillboxes on Oahu to hold back a Japanese invasion, Ray Jones, a World War I veteran, went down to the closest U.S. Army recruiting office to enlist, but he was drunk and was laughed out into the street. He went back to his empty office, sat down in his dentist’s chair, and shot himself in the mouth. He was found by my sixteen-year-old aunt, Mary Ann, on her way home from school.
The bar in our Paris apartment was an antique eighteenth-century carved wooden pulpit from a French village church. My father had seen a pulpit bar at a friend’s apartment and for several years had searched for something similar. He finally found ours at the Village Suisse antiques market and installed it, complete with prayer stools, as the centerpiece of the living room. To him, this was the greatest of ironies, the most irreverent of jokes he could pull on his Christian forebears; it was as if he were thumbing his nose at all of it—the hypocrisy, the sexual repression, and the beatings his mother had given him in the name of God.
The pulpit bar became the scene of many political debates. Occasionally things got so heated fistfights broke out, candlesticks were thrown, and lamps overturned. As a result, my father, the supreme ruler of his fortified castle, created the Ten-Minute Rule. Anyone could take the pulpit, but after ten minutes, the person had to step down and give someone else a chance. James Baldwin loved to take the pulpit and was often found there in the early-morning hours putting forth the proposition that all white Americans, by the mere nature of their being white Americans, were racist. This would throw my dad into a rage.
Paris had its first big American civil rights march in the early sixties, and my mother took me along. I was not old enough to walk, so I was carried on Jimmy Baldwin’s shoulders, all the way from the U.S. Embassy on a corner of the place de la Concorde, up the wide and tree-lined Champs-Élysées, to the Arc de Tri-omphe. I don’t know if I remember the day, or if I remember my mother and Jimmy telling me about it. In my mind I see the backs of thousands and thousands of heads moving up the avenue, everyone singing songs. No one seemed afraid. Every time in my life I saw Jimmy, he would remind me of that day. He almost single-handedly turned me into a raving liberal.
In 1962, when we spent the winter living in a beach house in Montego Bay, Jamaica, my parents became friendly with a British couple, Michael and Pheobe, who ran an upscale hotel where my parents liked to hang out. Michael and Pheobe were fostering a little French boy they’d named Ambrose and were apparently trying to decide whether or not to adopt him. My mother, upon seeing the little blond baby frolicking in a shallow pool with his nurse, said to Michael, Oh, how I wish I could have a little boy like that. If you don’t want to adopt him, we will.
Pheobe committed suicide in 1963, and Michael, who was already in his late forties, felt he could not handle raising the little boy on his own. Ambrose’s biological mother did not want him back, so he was temporarily placed in a French orphanage. Michael called my parents in Paris and told them what had happened. By this time, my mother had had two more miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy, and did not think she could conceive again. It took almost a year for the paperwork to clear, but Ambrose came to live with us.
He arrived a month before his fourth birthday, in September 1964. I’d just turned four in August. He spoke only French, having forgotten his English completely during his time in the orphanage.
I have an image in my mind of the day he came to us, a little blond boy with a downcast look, in shorts and jacket too small for him, tightly gripping a small, battered suitcase, the only thing he owned. In it, he had a change of clothes and a few pairs of underwear and socks, and stained old footie pajamas. My mother went through the suitcase and promptly bought him a whole new wardrobe of beautiful, expensive clothes. Even so, he kept that suitcase, with its original contents, and took it with him everywhere he went, and slept with it under his bed. He must have thought he was going to be taken back to the orphanage at any moment.
Ambrose ate and drank everything put in front of him, quickly and efficiently, bent over his plate, never looking up. Everything except fish. No one could get him to eat fish, even under threat of punishment and even when Judite, our nanny, stood behind him at the little kitchen table and smacked him on the back of the head. He did not react, he just sat, his cheeks glowing, a glassy expression veiling his eyes, as if this was a normal part of life, something children had to endure. I knew this was wrong of her but did nothing to stop it. Ambrose’s arrival did not alleviate my loneliness, but rather added to it, because now, while our father tried to remain impartial, our mother took Ambrose’s side in every argument and defended him like a mother bear with a cub. To me, Judite was the only person in the whole house who was completely on my side.
When we ate dinner formally with our parents a couple of nights a week, our dad would get annoyed at Ambrose and tell him to stop swallowing his food like a savage. Apparently none of us considered where he’d been. He’d spent close to a year in that orphanage, and who knew how much they were given to eat, or if there were bigger kids who tried to grab his food away from him.
For the first few months, my brother sometimes woke up crying in the middle of the night, begging someone called Tante Hélène not to beat him for wetting his bed. He’d been completely alone in the world, and now he was not. But he did not know this yet. And though I resented his arrival into our home, when he woke up sobbing, I helped him change his pajamas and invited him to share my bed, and told him he had nothing to fear ever again from Tante Hélène or anyone else, because our daddy would kill anyone who tried to hurt him.
Around this time, our old black-and-white TV broke three times. The TV repairman couldn’t figure out what was wrong. One afternoon I heard a loud banging and came running to see. Ambrose was hammering the back of the TV with a long, flexible plastic rod with some kind of heavy magnet at the end, probably a piece from some board game.
Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais?
I asked him what he was doing.
I want to open it up to see the little people inside.
Judite swooped down and backhanded him across the head. Ah, you little bastard,
she shouted in French, I knew it was you!
My mother showered her little boy with gifts. She threw the biggest birthday party we’d ever had at our Paris apartment, inviting every child she could think of, ranging in age from toddlers to teenagers. She ordered a two-foot-high cone-shaped cake made of little cream-puff balls, glazed with honey. His eyes practically popped out of his head when he saw the pile of presents, all for him. It took him two days to open them, which horrified me. If I’d had that many presents, I’d have torn the wrappers off in a matter of minutes.
Not for one second did my parents differentiate between us. He was ours now, for the rest of his life, and apparently he realized this himself pretty quickly. Shortly after his birthday party, my brother gave his suitcase to our father and told him he wanted to change his name to Little James. Our father named him Jamie.
Jamie learned to speak English in a matter of months, and then took on the task of Americanizing himself, refusing to speak, read, or write in French in our kindergarten class at the École Al-sacienne. One day, while standing in the school yard, the teacher told my mother that her son was retarded. My mother promptly threw sand from the sandbox in the teacher’s face. We ran away and never went back, but the next week we started at École Active Bilingue, a French school where English was taught. Unfortunately, this move didn’t help Jamie much.
By the age of six, Jamie could give our dad a run for his money in a game of chess, and beat both our parents at gin. Our mom said, Retarded, my ass! Now, stop acting like a jerk and start focusing in school.
An extremely expensive psychiatrist gave Jamie a battery of tests and reported that the only thing wrong was that he wanted to be American, and suggested Jamie be enrolled in an American school. He went to Pershing Hall School in Auteuil for the next eight years and never had a problem again. According to our dad, the only problem was that the god damn school is going to cost me more than a fucking yacht.
Recently, my brother told me a story I’d never heard before. Just around the time my parents were adopting Jamie, his biological father, a wealthy playboy who lived in Monte Carlo, wrote a letter to our father, offering to subsidize the boy’s education, right up through college. Our dad wrote him back and thanked him, but turned down the offer. Jamie,
he wrote, will have to take his chances with us.
My mother adored dancing, and my fondest memories of her are of us kicking up our heels in our long, cream-colored, sunny Paris living room. My father had purchased a state-of-the-art stereo system, and sometimes in the afternoon, she’d decide to put on music, and it would fill the house, echoing off the walls and making the tall French windows rattle.
While Jamie sat on the couch, observing with a bemused expression, my mother and I and whoever else was over would dance to the Beatles, the Barry Sisters from Israel, Simon & Garfunkel, The Kingston Trio, Harry Belafonte. She taught me to walk up and down the stairs with a book on my head, which forced me to find my center of gravity and to move my hips while holding my torso still; the rest was easy—she taught me the twist, the waltz, the fox-trot, the two-step, and the Charleston. She even got her Israeli friend to teach us the hora.
Come over here and dance, you pain in the ass!
she’d call to Jamie, but he would not budge from the couch.
When the Styrons or the Shaws were visiting, my mother would play The Writer Fucker Club anthem, Take Him,
by Rodgers and Hart, sung by some famous Broadway star. The wives would put on a little show, linking arms and kicking their legs out like chorus girls.
Take him, I won’t make a play for him
he’s not for me….
His thoughts are seldom consecutive
he just can’t write.
I know a movie executive
who’s twice as bright!!
Everyone would howl with laughter, but I didn’t get the joke and found myself cringing on the couch, next to Jamie.
Once, my mother played a classical record, and I recognized the tune from a little song we’d been taught in Chant, our singing class at school. I flew around the room, jumping and pirouetting, singing, Up in the treetops / A birdie sang to me / It’s springtime / It’s springtime / And all the birds are singing!
Jamie threw himself back into the couch and covered his ears, muttering, Au secours!
Help!
Bravo!
cried my mother. You’re singing to Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.
She had also made my father go up and down the stairs with a book on his head, and as a result, he’d become an excellent dancer. Watching the two of them moving in fluid rhythm, as one being, was a beautiful thing to behold.
For Jamie’s first Christmas, our mother bought a large, fresh pine wreath, and piles and piles of candy and chocolate, which we spent hours tying to the wreath with gold and red ribbon. Then we hung the wreath on the outside door of the apartment with a little pair of scissors, an invitation for people to take what they liked. Merry Christmas! But some voyoux, young neighborhood thugs, pulled all the candies off, then rang the doorbell and fled, laughing and jeering. We opened the door and found the wreath all broken, branches lying on the floor in a carpet of pine needles, as if it had been attacked by dogs.
Come back here, you little shits!
our mother yelled as she shook her fist at their fleeing backs. She kicked the door and started to cry. I was stunned into immobility. I had never seen her cry.
The day before Christmas, the doorbell rang, and it was two deliverymen from Au Nain Bleu, the fanciest toy store in Paris. They rolled a huge canvas container into the living room and unpacked a mountain of colorfully wrapped gifts. Jamie stood back and stared at this pile in complete shock.
"Is…is all that from le père Noël?" he stammered.
"There is no père Noël, our mother told him, tipping the two deliverymen.
I’m the père Noël around here!"
At Easter we boiled eggs and our mother’s friend Addie Herder helped us paint them. She was an extraordinary collagist, and was also now Jamie’s godmother. We made Addie paint the faces of everyone we knew on the eggs, complete with cotton hair, so that every time we walked by, it looked like a party was in full swing on the large silver platter. My mother bought big chocolate rabbits with bows, which she placed on the platter among the eggs. Jamie picked the one he wanted, which had a blue bow, and eyed it with the same pained devotion our German shepherd, Sir Dog, had for his steak bones. Knowing this was the rabbit Jamie wanted, I decided it was also the rabbit I wanted, and an enormous fight erupted. Of course, my mother took Jamie’s side and I had to pick another rabbit with a different-colored bow.
I was convinced that planet Earth had never seen a more stubborn boy than Jamie. When I insisted, quite reasonably I thought, that Jamie’s G.I. Joe should reciprocate my Barbie’s affection and they should get married (of course Barbie really wanted G.I. Joe’s Jeep—boy, what a great Jeep that was!), Jamie would get that glassy look in his eyes and refuse. No,
was all he would say. There was no point in taking this up with our mother, because she would only say, "Oh, for God’s sake, stop acting like Lucy from Peanuts, you mean little girl, and leave him alone!"
With him, I could scream, yell, threaten, stomp my feet; nothing worked.
It still doesn’t.
As a child, I suffered from insomnia, especially on Sunday nights when Judite was off. Jamie could fall asleep anywhere, and now that he no longer suffered from nightmares, he slept like a stone, undisturbed by noise or commotion. I hated that he could do this.
Sundays started around eleven, when our parents awakened. We’d have a family outing, lunch at the Lido Club, or the Brasserie Lipp, or our dad’s favorite Vietnamese restaurant, then we’d go see an American movie with French subtitles. By 5:00 P.M. we’d be back home so that our mom could prepare the one dish she knew how to make—spaghetti Bolognese—for the fifty or so people who’d be stopping by in a couple of hours. My mom would have several scotch-and-sodas on the rocks, getting ready for the evening.
A seed of anxiety would sprout in my stomach while we were in the kitchen chopping garlic and onions for the sauce. By eight, which was our bedtime, this feeling would have bloomed into a huge, many-tendrilled, man-eating plant.
I clung to my mother as she put me to bed, and I loved the tingling, sweet and cool smell of scotch on her breath and the smoke of Marlboros on her clothes as she held me against her large, soft breasts.
Okay, enough.
She’d push me off. Go to sleep.
At first, I cried and beat my fists against the mattress and shouted for Judite. I want my Didi!
My mother said, Your Didi gets paid to watch you. She needs a day off, like anybody else. Now go to sleep.
This is how I learned to stay quiet, and wait in bed, staring at the dark corners of the ceiling for a long time, listening to the laughter and shouting and music coming from the living room, up a flight of shallow stairs. Right next door, Jamie was snoring away, sound asleep.
Then, after an appropriate amount of time, I would climb the stairs, dragging my leopard print blanket behind me, and my parents would let me stretch out on the couch and observe the raucous goings-on. One night, a tall and elegant lady whom I didn’t know—clearly a newcomer—approached my father and said, You shouldn’t let your little girl see and hear all this. You should send her back to bed.
Everyone tensed.
If you don’t like it, you can goddamn well get the hell out of my house,
he said, and stormed off to another corner of the room.
When I finally fell asleep, my father would carry me back down to my bed. Sometimes their high-stakes poker game went on so late, they’d still be playing the next morning when Jamie and I left for school, the living room filled with a gray fog of smoke, ashtrays overflowing on every surface.
My father swore like the common foot soldier he’d been and didn’t care who heard him. By the age of six, Jamie and I knew every gruesome and colorful swearword in the American lexicon.
About Mme. Cohen, the headmistress at my French school, our dad would say, That mean old cunt couldn’t tell her own ass from her elbow.
Or upon returning from a fancy party, There were more famous people in that room than I could shake my dick at.
(I promptly repeated this to my best friend, Lee Esterling, the next morning at the École Bilingue.)
I also told Lee’s mom about my dad’s nose: My daddy says he has a nose like a douche bag.
I had no idea what a douche bag was, but I was proud of my enriched vocabulary, and I couldn’t understand why the comment received such a cold response from Mrs. Esterling.
Only one word was whispered in our house, as if it were the worst insult in the entire world you could call somebody—alcoholic.
My father, in a low, measured tone, admitted to me once, when I was perhaps six or seven, that my grandfather Ray Jones had been an alcoholic.
Alcoholic was a word my parents reserved for the most appalling and shameful cases—drunks who made public scenes or tried to kill themselves or ended up in the street or in an institution. If you could hold your liquor, you were not an alcoholic. If you could get up in the morning and go to work, you were definitely not an alcoholic. No matter how much my dad drank the night before or what time he’d gone to bed, he got up at six every morning, made himself a pot of coffee, and climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Every day but Sunday, he wrote for six to eight hours straight.
Most people were astounded by the amount of alcohol my father was able to consume and yet still retain his composure. He appeared to judge people he just met by their capacity to imbibe. The more they were able to drink without falling over or making a fool of themselves, the better he liked them. One Sunday night someone brought Jerzy Kosinksi, the author of The Painted Bird. My father distrusted him and his wife, Katherina Von Fraunhofer (known as Kiki), practically on sight. He told us later he thought they were phonies
—and interestingly neither one of them drank; Jerzy never touched a drop of alcohol. Jerzy and Kiki became regulars for a while at my parents’ Sunday-night parties, and my father tolerated their presence but never considered them friends. Years later, when Jerzy was accused of inventing his own biography, of plagiarizing his work, and of not having spent World War II as a Jewish orphan wandering alone around Poland, I realized that my father’s built-in bullshit detector had been functioning perfectly, despite his inebriated state.
One afternoon, perhaps a Saturday, I found my father sitting alone at the head of the long dining room table, looking worried. I asked him what was wrong. I must have been in second or third grade.
We’re going broke,
he muttered. We can’t go on living like this. We’re going to end up in the fucking street.
I put my hand on his large, tight shoulder and patted him there. It’ll be okay when you finish your next book,
I gently offered.
I can’t write ’em fast enough,
he replied. It’s these goddamn French taxes.
I thought for a moment and then said, Why don’t you go work for IBM, like my friend Lee Esterling’s dad? Mr. Esterling gets a paycheck every two weeks. That way you could get paid every two weeks and you wouldn’t have to write so much.
My dad threw his head back and guffawed. He leaned back so far that the Louis Treize chair he was sitting on groaned and threatened to crack in two. Ah, shit,
he said, wiping his eyes, that’s the funniest thing I ever heard in my life.
For the next month or so, he told everyone this story, and they all thought it was hilarious.
I couldn’t understand what was so funny. I was only trying to give him sound advice.
My greatest childhood terror, besides insomnia, was the last hour of school each day, when my anxiety built to the point that I felt I might pee in my pants. When the final bell rang and we thundered down the stairway like a herd of antelope, I searched the faces of the parents and nannies crowding the echoing, vaulted outdoor hall that in the old days held the horse-drawn carriages, hoping to see my mother or Judite. If I did not find one of them immediately, that meant my mother had told Judite she would pick me up today but had then forgotten to come and get me.
Now I had to wait, and wait, and wait some more as the last private taxis took my classmates home, and the janitors in their blue jumpsuits came out with their pails and mops, and the headmistress, Mme. Cohen, and the assistant headmistress, Mme. de la Marselle, clacked down the stairs in their sharp suits and heels, briefcases in hand.
Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais là, toi?
What are you still doing here, you?
By then I had to pee so badly I had to ask them for permission to go to the toilet, even though we were not allowed back upstairs. Mme. de la Marselle, huffing and sighing, took me up and went back to her office to call my house, but of course no one was home, because Judite was out running errands. Even though I was crying hysterically by now, it never occurred to me, not once, to call my father on his private line in his office upstairs. In my estimation, this was not an emergency big enough to disturb his work.
My mother was probably still sitting at Brasserie Lipp or the Deux Magots or La Coupole, having another glass of wine or brandy or whatever it was she and her friends drank after lunch, having totally forgotten that she’d told Judite she’d pick me up.
By the time we got someone on the phone, it was close to dinnertime and Judite, harried and tired, rushed over in the family station wagon. It was pitch dark outside and I was so relieved I felt drugged, but I was also so angry I could not speak to her.
Bien, c’était ta maman qui devait venir.
Eh, it was your mommy who was supposed to come today, she said in her singsong voice, abdicating all responsibility.
Back home, not remotely calmed, I went downstairs to my parents’ room